


i could be home by now

by brampersandon



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 16:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17104502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/pseuds/brampersandon
Summary: The strangeness of seeing Claudio trying to settle into a city that doesn't have his blood running through it comes in waves, one after the other, and it leaves Andrea standing in his entryway, unmoored.





	i could be home by now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [selenedaydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenedaydreams/gifts).



> written for the [december prompt set](https://footballprompts.tumblr.com/post/180674288303/december-prompt-set), using word and trope prompts. 
> 
> and for teo because we are in niche juve hell together ♥ also because:  
> 
> 
> title comes from _home by now_ by bombay bicycle club.

The oddity of not reporting to Coverciano's mostly worn off for Andrea. He was ready to retire years ago, that part doesn't faze him, but it's particularly lonely now in a way that it wasn't before. Anyone else who wouldn't get called up left Turin over the summer, and it's not that he can't stand a couple weeks on his own, it's just— different.

These days he feels too old for different.

 

 

 

 

"Can I tell you something?"

Paulo lolls his head to look at him, fringe flopping across his eyes as he does. He blows it up and away only for it to fall right back into place. "What's up?"

It sits on his tongue, what he won't tell Leo or Giorgio when they ask what he'll do during the international break, because— why? It's ridiculous at this point, three months into the season, but there's still a small pit of resentment deep in his gut, black as tar. It's not like they won't find out on their own, one way or another, but not from him. Not before he goes, anyway.

"I'm going to Saint Petersburg."

"Oh. Okay." Then, after he thinks about it for a few seconds— "Oh! _Ohh_. Like, forever?"

"What?" Andrea props himself up on one elbow to look at him, incredulous laughter bubbling up from his throat before he can stop it and a palm immediately shoved against Paulo's cheek. "No. _What_? Can you fucking imagine me playing in Russia?"

"I don't know!" He rolls on top of Andrea in one fluid motion, pinches his side. "Hard to imagine you playing at all anymore. Lazy." Another pinch. "Old." And again. 

This is why he and Paulo have always gotten along well, this easy, carefree back-and-forth. The kid's a little shit. Eventually he settles down, pillows his chin on Andrea's chest and looks at him myopically. "You're gonna visit Claudio, huh."

"No, I'm going to freeze my balls off in Russia for fun." He wrap both arms tight around Paulo to keep him from play-fighting anymore. "Yeah, I'll stay with him for a couple days."

He grins, sharp and bright white through the dim light of the bedroom. "Is it a surprise?"

Andrea snorts. "No. He hates surprise guests. You know that."

"I bet he wouldn't hate it now. Not if it was you."

That's the thing about Paulo — he just says things like that, drops some insight and wisdom out of nowhere, casual as anything and unapologetically un-self-conscious about it. He pays more attention than he lets on. To everything. Everyone. Normally Andrea adores that about him, but— right now it's a bit much. He rolls them over with no effort at all, crushes him against the bed and lays there like dead weight until Paulo starts his melodramatics about suffocating to death beneath a bear.

 

 

 

 

He sits next to Leo on the bench at San Siro, his left leg bouncing a steady beat the whole time. It's a peculiar choice, not letting Leo play a single second at his old haunt, but it's Max's, so he doesn't question it. Leo doesn't either, though that's more trying to play the role of contrite prodigal son than actual deference. Andrea can tell by the set of his jaw alone. 

"Hey," Leo says for the dozenth time since the season started, "Un-retire from the national team."

"Hey," he responds in kind, "Quit telling me what to do."

He leans back and huffs out all his petulence. "Mancini'd call you up in a heartbeat. Gigi too. We need you."

He doesn't doubt that, not for a minute. Andrea squints out toward the pitch as the last quarter of the game ticks down. For all the complicated feelings he has swirling in the back of his mind, he never wants to be purposefully unkind to Leo. So he brings one hand down onto his knee, gives it a squeeze so Leo knows he means well when he says, "I know. Doesn't matter though. Time for everyone to move on."

Funny, considering the boarding pass in his duffel bag. Do as he says, not as he does.

 

 

 

 

A kid scurries down the aisle toward him, asks him if he can have a selfie. Andrea leans across the arm of his seat, the same height sitting as the boy is standing, and grins at the phone screen.

"Why are you going to Russia?" he asks in heavily accented English, all childlike wonder and total disregard for boundaries. Andrea doesn't mind it. He likes kids, remembers what it was like to be one, staring up at his favorite Fiorentina players in awe while they signed his shirt. He's glad to hand a bit of that happiness back to them when he can.

"I want to sightsee," he says easily. Not a lie, not entirely anyway, and it makes the kid break into a wide grin and rattle off a list of things he should do before his mother calls him back.

 

 

 

 

It's not a long flight, just a few hours, just enough time to watch half a movie before succumbing to a nap— which would be a great plan, but Andrea's skin feels too hot and tight all over to let him get any rest. There's no reason he should be as nervous as he is, no matter how long it's been since he last saw Claudio. They've known each other too long and too well for nerves. And it's only been a little more than two months—

Which is the longest they've been apart in seven years. So maybe a few jitters are justified.

It's stupid. It's not like he hasn't seen Claudio at all. They've FaceTimed almost every weekend since he left, recapping their weeks before eventually falling into companionate silence and going about their separate lives, digital ghosts present in each other's homes. Andrea's watched him cook dinner in his unfamiliar kitchen more than a few times, seeing him now shouldn't be any different than that.

And yet.

He makes his way through the airport, retrieves his bag, pulls his scarf up around his nose as he steps out into the pickup area— and there he is, infuriatingly well-dressed even in the snow, leaning against the side of his car with hands in his coat pockets and a lopsided grin.

They should throw his shit into the car and get going, they can't have the reunion they both want here outside Pulkovo, but that doesn't stop Claudio. He holds an arm out, pulls Andrea into a hug. He lets himself take a moment, turn his face into the warmth of Claudio's neck, close his eyes and take a deep breath. Same cologne. Same shampoo. Same man, different setting. It loosens some coil of anxiety he's been holding onto for hours without really knowing why.

"You'd never be able to pick me up from the airport in Turin," he says when he finally pulls away. "You'd get swarmed."

Claudio takes his suitcase with a self-effacing little shrug. "There are perks to being here."

 

 

 

 

It's not like it's a bad place by any means. Claudio hasn't lived anywhere that could be considered even remotely close to _bad_ in his life — even the small, bare bones apartment he shared with Sebastian in Empoli wasn't terrible. Andrea's seen pictures of it, taken by Claudio's father when he helped him move away, the two of them lanky with terrible haircuts and matching awkward grins next to their new front door. "The only time I'd lived without them," Claudio had explained, flipping through the stack of photographs. "They wanted to commemorate it."

His stomach turns, not for the first time by far. The farthest Claudio ever moved from home was just a few hours away. 

His eyes keep darting to the GPS navigating them back home as they drive. Another twist of the knife — Claudio drove him around Turin countless times, and Andrea can't remember him using a navigator even once. 

And the building they eventually turn into is enormous, lavish, luxury apartment on top of luxury apartment. Again, it's not bad, it's just— not Claudio. Andrea's used to seeing him unlock a door to a sprawling home, everything custom made to his ridiculously posh tastes, everything minimalist and bespoke, whatever the fuck means. The apartment looks like every other apartment they pass. The furniture isn't his own. Came with the place, Andrea realizes. It's hardly a home.

The strangeness of seeing Claudio trying to settle into a city that doesn't have his blood running through it comes in waves, one after the other, and it leaves Andrea standing in his entryway, unmoored.

"Set your stuff down," Claudio prompts, and when Andrea just looks at him like he hadn't heard, he rolls his eyes and takes the suitcase himself. He carries it away, gives Andrea only enough time to toe off his shoes and hang up his jacket before he's back, crowding against him immediately until his back hits the door. 

"At least let me tell you what a nice place you've got first," Andrea laughs between Claudio's frantic, desperate kisses. "Compliment the light fixtures and shit."

"Shut up," Claudio murmurs, hands sliding up the back of his shirt, and for once, Andrea does. 

It feels unfathomably good, cupping his still-cold cheeks in both hands and tilting him up into the kiss. Claudio's fingers dig into the hard muscle of his back and his mouth opens easily. Same taste. Same breathy little noises when Andrea breaks away to nip across his jaw and down his throat. The same. Andrea's dizzy with it.

 

 

 

 

"I brought you a present."

Claudio grins at him, throws a hand towel over his shoulder as he turns toward the espresso brewing next to the stove. "I thought your presence was the present?"

"Then I brought you two. I'm generous." He leans down, unzips the backpack he left carelessly at his feet. There's hardly anything in it, just his phone charger and a book Giorgio gave him three years ago that's accompanied him on every flight since, as if he's ever actually going to read it — and a small paper bag that he pulls out to place on the counter.

When Claudio turns back and catches sight of it, it takes a second, and then his face lights up and he tears it open like a kid on Christmas. Two thick hunks of hazelnut cake from his favorite bakery, mostly intact despite the transit. 

He stares at them for a moment, and it looks ridiculous, Andrea thinks, a grown man looking so fond at a piece of cake in each hand, but before he can say anything Claudio finally lifts his eyes to look at him again. "What, would a whole cake not survive the trip?"

"Fuck off," Andrea laughs, and in a flash they're plated in front of him with two delicate forks resting on the edge, a cup of espresso on either side. Claudio doesn't come around to join him in a chair, just leans his elbows on the counter and digs in right there. This is why he only brought a piece for each of them. He sort of wants to tell him that — _I wanted to eat it with you, like this, like we would back home_ — but he doesn't trust himself to get that out coherently, and really, he'd rather shut up and eat the cake.

 

 

 

 

They stay like that for hours, make more espresso and get more snacks, catch up on everything under the sun. Somehow there's more to talk about here than there ever is over the phone — maybe it's the novelty of getting to watch Claudio's reactions in real time, up close, that makes him not want to stop talking. Same laughter that lights up his too-blue eyes when Andrea tells him about the pranks Juan and Alex Sandro have been playing on Mattia, same tight-lipped almost-smile when he mentions offhand how Leo's settling back in. 

Claudio has his own share of stories — the referees he doesn't understand but has tried to argue with anyway, his tentative and stuttering forays into friendship with Paredes and Dzyuba and the rest of the squad, the places he's found himself while exploring the city blind. And borscht. Turns out he loves borscht.

"I can try making it for you," he's saying. "The recipe's not perfect yet, but—"

"You don't have to," Andrea shrugs. 

He starts clearing off the plates and cups between them, stacking them by the sink and turning the water on to warm up. "You don't have to," he repeats. Claudio's rolling his sleeves up anyway and Andrea sighs, heaves himself up off the chair to come around and tug at the fabric of his shirt. "Leave the dishes. They'll be here later. Come on."

To his credit, Claudio switches off the water and turns to face him properly. "You want me to let my house fall into disarray just because you're here?"

Andrea grins. "Yeah. No cooking or cleaning." The grin gets wider as Claudio's eyebrows knit together. Might as well ask a bird not to fly. Still, Andrea's only here for a couple days — Max is more lenient with him lately, but not so much that he'll let him skive off training for any longer than that. He wants Claudio's attention while he has it. 

There's an easy way to do that, he remembers. All he has to do is hook his hands under Claudio's armpits, lift him up just enough to settle him on the counter. He does it fast enough that Claudio doesn't have time to protest — not that he would, his legs immediately wrapping around Andrea's waist to keep him close. He runs his hands up Andrea's arms, stares at him with a thoughtful little smile playing across his lips. 

"What."

"Nothing." Claudio tilts his head. "I just realized something."

" _What_ ," Andrea repeats. He's terrible at faking impatience with Claudio's coy little games. He's missed this too much to really be irritated at all.

And sure enough, Claudio grins at him, slow and sly as his thighs flex on either side of Andrea to pull him in impossibly closer. "Dzyuba's bigger than you."

Laughter explodes out of both of them — Jesus fucking Christ, _of course_ he's Claudio's type — and only quiets when Andrea surges forward to kiss him again. 

 

 

 

 

The morning sun doesn't filter in through his window the same way it did in Turin. It stays dark in the bedroom as Andrea lays awake there, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram with one hand while the other arm is stuck underneath Claudio. He's sound asleep still, little puffs of breath against Andrea's bicep the only indicator that he's alive at all. 

Every other photo is from Azzurri training. Yeah, he retired, but there's no reason Claudio shouldn't be there. He wishes that didn't nag at him as much as he does. 

 

 

 

 

"I know it's not your thing," Claudio tells him when he brandishes two tickets to the Hermitage, "But we're going. You have to see it."

He's right, it's really not his thing at all — Giorgio would die happy spending eight hours in a museum, but the thought just makes Andrea tired. Still. At least it's heated in there, at least he won't be shivering himself sick out in the snow, at least he can come back a little more cultured than he was when he left. And truthfully, he's terrible at denying Claudio anything. He couldn't do it before and he definitely can't now. 

It's worth it, all of it is, when he gets to follow Claudio down every hall and listen to him play tour guide. Zenit brought him here recently, Andrea still has the photos saved on his phone, but he knows even if they hadn't Claudio would still be able to teach him everything there is to know about Botticelli, Rembrandt, Gauguin. He soaks all of the history and meaning and nuance up like a sponge, explains it like it's second nature. The most thrilling commentary Andrea can come up with is _the colors are nice_ , but then again, he's not here to talk. Here's here to listen to Claudio, to watch him, to follow after him through the whole cavernous place, hoping for just one more minute, just one more second with him than he had before.

 

 

 

 

His prize for spending a full day pretending to listen to fun facts about Van Gogh is an evening at a restaurant Claudio promises won't offend him when it passes itself off as authentic Italian. "You know I wouldn't bring you somewhere if it wasn't excellent," Claudio says dismissively when Andrea pulls a face. Sometimes he thinks it's part of why they gravitated toward one another. Both incurable snobs.

He's not wrong, of course. It's as close to a taste of home as he's likely to get outside of his own kitchen. Even with a steady stream of good food and better wine, something sits uneasy in Andrea's stomach that has nothing to do with the bolognese. A back-and-forth he's been grappling with since he got here and got to watch Claudio move through this unfamiliar space. He's glad he has these places he goes to where he feels more comfortable, more at home. But he doesn't like thinking of him alone in a museum, a restaurant, a wine bar, a park with a lake that reminds him of Vinovo, grasping for any antidote to loneliness. 

He did it to himself. Andrea knows that. Somehow, it doesn't help at all.

 

 

 

 

The novelty of being able to climb into a taxi cab drunk as sin and not get recognized hasn't worn off for Andrea. It's fucking great, not getting stopped every few feet, getting to weave through the brightly lit city streets with Claudio without worry it'll end up on the cover of Tuttosport, it feels— normal, almost, until he remembers they're not home, not where they're supposed to be. They're in fucking Russia.

"I know," Claudio murmurs. Either he's psychic or Andrea's train of thought started to make its way out of his mouth at some point. "But I do like it here. I do."

Andrea doesn't know which of them he's trying to convince more.

He watches as Claudio leans his temple against the taxi window, casts his eyes up and out to take in all the extravagant buildings. The street lighting throws harsh shadows across the planes of his face, makes him look like someone else entirely. He reaches out, too drunk to hesitate, and takes Claudio's gloved hand in his own to bring his focus back to him.

The shadows shift back to where they belong when Claudio tips his head toward him and smiles. Same guy.

 

 

 

 

He insists they go out to the balcony — _it's a fucking nice balcony with a fucking nice view_ , he crows over and over while trying to push Claudio toward the door, and if he were less wine-soaked he'd wonder when he started giving a shit about things like balconies and views.

Well. That's easy enough to figure out. It's all an excuse to watch snow catch on Claudio's lashes and melt against the flush on his cheeks.

"Barzagli," he half-laughs, half-whines, clinging onto him and trying to burrow into his coat. "It's too cold to be out here."

"You didn't drink enough, clearly," Andrea counters, "I can't even feel it."

They stay there for a while, even with Claudio's complaints, tucked together and staring out over the city. It feels like the edge of something, like if he makes a move one way or another he'll take a step that neither of them can come back from, so instead he doesn't say anything at all. Just watches the starry sky until Claudio finally presses his lips to the one patch of skin on his neck not covered by his scarf. "Take me inside," he says. It's all the invitation Andrea needs.

 

 

 

 

It's quick and sloppy, they're both still too tipsy for it to be anything but. 

Maybe it has to be. Maybe that's the only way he can finally let all of this, all of this overwhelming insurmountable _this_ out. Even yesterday in the kitchen, all he did was stoop down to suck Claudio off where he sat on the counter, then let him jerk him off later in the shower before they collapsed into bed for sleep. Any more than that and he's terrified he'll break, chest cracking open and spilling out every stupid, selfish, mournful thought he's had since summer. 

So he flips Claudio onto his back, tucks his legs up against his chest and crushes as close to him as possible when he fucks into him fast and kisses him hard. Better to close his eyes, keep swallowing up Claudio's moans, focus on how he feels like home and nothing else. He doesn't trust himself to say anything, not even Claudio's name.

Nothing's changed, he tells himself. Claudio still looks like a vision when he comes, head thrown back, neck exposed, back arched, face deceptively serene, like some obscene sculpture come to life. With all his focus on Claudio, they could be anywhere. Sardinia. Ibiza. Back in Turin. It's all the same. Ship him off to the other side of the world and make him sit on the bench alone, doesn't matter, Claudio will still be the same man— it's that thought that finally gets Andrea off, and when he collapses on him and presses his face to his neck, he barely has the strength left to laugh.

 

 

 

 

Eventually they pick themselves up, shower, remake the bed and crawl back in. With the haze of wine and adrenaline breaking down little by little, they're quieter, Andrea's head pillowed against his chest as they let the silence wash over them. It's a little calm, a lot melancholy. He wishes it wasn't.

"I'll be back in December," Claudio tells him, voice muzzy with sleep, bony shoulder digging into Andrea's cheek and deft fingers sliding methodically through his hair. "For nearly three months."

From this angle he can watch the muscles shift in Claudio's other arm, the dark ink against them. He can't count how many nights he's spent memorizing every angle of his tattoos. He's exhausted, distracted by tracing the thin lines of pale skin shot through the intricate design before what Claudio said sinks in. 

Three months.

Andrea picks his head up to look at him. "You'll be in Turin the whole time?"

Claudio's eyebrows go down at the same time as his lips quirk up. It's a face Andrea's seen way too often since they met — his _are you fucking stupid?_ face, equal parts incredulous and painfully fond. "I mean, I was hoping to drag you to the beach at some point, but yeah. Where else would I go?"

"If I had three months off, I'd be at the beach the whole time," he points out. Claudio only shrugs.

"I want to be with my family," he says. "Work on some campaigns. Come to some matches. See you. And everyone else."

It makes sense. It does. It shouldn't be as difficult to grasp as it is, but Andrea's still floundering to try to understand the full scope of it. Part of him wants nothing more than Claudio in Turin, the missing piece, fitting back in like he never left— and that's just it. Part of him worries if he comes back, he'll never be able to extricate himself again. A mid-season retirement, or just a refusal to return and a broken contract. He knows Claudio, and he wants to ask if that's really a good idea, but— well. Nothing about this has been a good idea, no reason to change tracks now.

"Barza," he hears Claudio say, pulling him out of his own thoughts like always. When he looks at him, his still-damp curls are matted against his forehead, tired eyes alight even in the darkened room. He's worrying too much, he knows that, but he can't help it. With only the street lights filtering in from outside and the white sheets pulled up over him, Claudio looks smaller than he is, more liable to bend too far and break. He wants to protect him, even from himself.

He props himself up with great effort — _god, you're old, you fucked me once and sprained your whole back_ , Claudio's chuckling before he drags him back down to press their lips together soft and slow. 

It can wait, Andrea thinks, body settling back down and mind following suit. He can try to talk some sense into Claudio when they're stretched out in the sand or floating in the ocean. Tomorrow he has to leave. Tonight he has Claudio warm and pliant beneath him, like the aching familiarity of an old injury. For the moment, he's here. He can let himself be here.

**Author's Note:**

> \- [cake](https://labellasorella.com/2015/04/hazelnut-cake/)......... baby hongry
> 
> \- zenit knew EXACTLY what the fuck they were doing when they brought [claudio to the hermitage](https://artloveraesthetic.tumblr.com/post/180169928668) and documented the whole damn thing.
> 
> \- russian premier league takes a winter break from mid-december to early march! and fun fact, zenit's last game before that break was an away match in europa league... and claudio still left immediately after and flew directly to turin. HEART HURT.
> 
> \- here's a teeny tiny itty bitty [writing playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/brampersandon/playlist/27Yla9zkfj6MYoLNaKTFUl?si=kfaXFmFDTT2FDMq9dP0Drg) :3c
> 
> \- thank you for reading! ♥ i'm on [tumblr](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com) if you want to be sad about claudio.


End file.
